


Lord Archmage Of Fife

by Draconic_Dreams



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: CW: Blood and Blood Magic, Dark!Ralathor, Gen, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draconic_Dreams/pseuds/Draconic_Dreams
Summary: The divine right of kings is nonsense. It iswizardswho are accountable only to the gods. Zargothrax raises an army, while Ralathor plots.A darker look at the Hermit. What exactly is his stake in all this?





	1. Chapter 1

The rolling foothills were empty except for a few groups of sheep, and an invisible man. His long, dark hair was braided into symbols, pulling magic closer around him. That alone would hide him from any dull creature that lacked the gift of magic. Tonight though, he hunted a fellow mage, so every rune painstakingly stitched into the lining of his blue cloak pulsed with power.

Ralathor was the greatest wizard in Alba. He wrote as fluently in runes as he did in Gaelic. His prowess in alchemy would soon yield the secret of transforming base metals into gold. His weakest arrays could destroy the life's work of a lesser sorcerer. Of course, the common people knew better then to charge him for anything, which was a nice perk of being all-powerful. 

But now, he no longer stood alone.

Rumours were rumours, and he ignored the first whispers. Tales were prone to exaggeration, after all. It was when they kept coming, and with them, sideways looks at him, that he knew he had to act. Cowdenbeath no longer revered him as it once had. So, he reluctantly left his latest alchemical concoction bubbling, stood up from the runic array that had yet to create even a beetle, and headed off to investigate this Zargoflax.

It was late afternoon when Ralathor reached a rather gaudy wizard's tower. It jutted out of the rolling hills like a particularly odd wart he'd developed once when an experiment had exploded on him. Any lesser being might have waited for dusk, but Ralathor had invented the overlapping wards which rendered him invisible (and otherwise undetectable), so he could walk where he pleased. His shoes levitated just above the boggy ground as he strolled up to the gates, not letting his enemy believe he could be made to rush. Zargomat's peasant worshippers milled around, muddying their boots and ankles as they brought offerings for the favour of their superior. Should he get his own peasants to start doing that? No, they'd make a mess of his cave and he'd get even more 'please sire bless my firstborn' requests than he already did. Peace and free lunch whenever he visited the inn was preferable. He would have it, once he destroyed his challenger. A few runestones he carried would let him step straight through the gates without bothering to open it, but if this sorcerer was even a quarter of what the peasants said he was, he'd notice the use of magic on his own home. Instead, Ralathor stepped neatly over the supposed barrier, and proceeded up the walls without breaking stride.

Zargorats was in the highest chamber, twirling a staff at a pockmarked rock. His cloak was sable, and from the window, Ralathor didn't see more than a couple of common runes in the embroidery — was that silver thread? Opulent, and impractical. Ralathor traced a rune on each palm: Teiwaz, of course, and Fehu, for the wealth and power he would gain from this victory.

The spell took him by surprise. He sensed it coming of course, but even so, the sulphuric energy singed his cloak. Through the shattered window, a pair of bright eyes sparked with gleeful curiosity, inches from his face.

“Who sneaks around the tower of the Great and Mighty Zargothrax?”

Ralathor dismissively blasted him across the room, leaving room to leap through the shattered glass and land on the floor without a scratch.

“The Mystic Enchanter of Cowdenbeath, Ralathor by name. I suppose you haven't done anything interesting enough to have a proper title yet,”

Lighting fizzed off the other man's already unfortunate hair. “I am the most powerful sorcerer in Alba! You're that scum they say sulks in a cave like some old witch.” Zargoants eyed Ralathor up and down, apparently unimpressed with his cloak despite the rare blue dye he'd spent a long time finding an alchemical recipe for.

“You certainly  _ look _ the part,” Ralathor said, sarcasm dripping from his words. If this man hadn't seen right through his invisibility, Ralathor would be tempted to call him a fake. Real mages shouldn't dress like an acting troupe without a wardrobe mistress. Clearly, Zargophallus must be killed before he tainted the reputation of warlocks everywhere. 

Ralathor reached for his runestones, and his blood magic knife. 

Zargothrax raised his staff.

The first spell hit a defensive runestone, sending shards of magic-infused rock deep into the walls. Ralathor split some of them further, securing runic anchor points around the battlefield. Zargothrax cast again, this time with a flurry of powerful tendrils that proved too weak to have an effect through his heavily enchanted cloak. 

Unscathed, he reached for the first rune, which began to shine with power. A single beam burst forth, rending the air itself around Zargothrax, who unfortunately shielded himself with a flourish of the ornamented staff. Instead, the runic blast echoed outwards, cracking the other runes Ralathor had prepared.

Zargothrax smirked.

Ralathor regarded him coolly. A drop of blood and a quick chant were enough to raise a rudimentary golem from the rubble. It swung a rocky fist while he prepared his next casting circle.

Zargothrax tried to block the hammer of living stone, only to reel back, cracks running down the length of his staff. He let the weapon fall to his side, and reached out a hand, directly for where the eyes might be. The golem's arm dropped, swinging uselessly by its side, then it spun on one foot and charged its creator. Ralathor's head jerked up, and he flicked his fingers as though to dispel the animation. Zargothrax held it together, but in that moment it slowed enough that whips of energy rose from the symbols drawn at Ralathor's feet and wrapped around the stone legs. 

Snarling, Zargothrax summoned lighting from the sky, the bolt rending the ceiling of the room open and stabbing down onto the blue hood. Once again, power flashed over the cape from the point of contact, and though Ralathor stumbled, he didn't seem even dazed. Zargothrax called for the floor to twist and buck like an unbroken stallion, and followed with another ball of pure magical energy. Unfortunately for him, he saw the glint in those infuriatingly blank eyes a moment too late. On the back of Ralathor's already cut hand was a sigil drawn in blood. He threw it forward, as if to punch the oncoming spell, and the magic exploded.

The animation spell on the golem gave out. The floor, still loose from Zargothrax' last spell, gave way and ruined the lovely feather mattress in the room below. The walls may have fared better, but the duelling wizards were too busy levitating themselves above the chaos to notice. Now balanced on the crenelated battlements, they faced one another, one with a cracked but functional staff and the other with an enchanted knife and bloodstained fingers. Those fingers traced shapes in the air, leaving lines that glowed ever so faintly to the magical eye. The staff angled downwards, drawing water from the peaty soil. Slowly at first, but gaining speed as it rose in a gigantic wave over the tower where they fought.

Ralathor continued to draw, unconcerned as the falling wall of water deluged him. Zargothrax pulled the wave back and struck again, and again, failing with each strike to break Ralathor’s concentration. Water being ineffective, he put his trust in stone. The block under Ralathor’s feet fell away from the tower.

As Ralathor fell, he powered the runes with the element of fire. One by one, they heated until flames burst forth in the form of a noble dragon. Zargothrax found himself facing a fanged maw of flames. He reached slowly back for the water as if a sudden movement might prompt an attack.

The dragon roared.

Zargothrax attempted to douse the beast but every drop of water steamed to nothingness before it could touch the flaming hide. One deflected plasma ball later, he stretched his magic further across the ground below. Zargothrax raised water. He raised peat. Rushes and sedges and thick, spongy sphagnum soared through the air and climbed the walls of the tower. 

The dragon thrashed. It screamed. The fiery whip of a tail sliced the top of the tower clean off. Muscles of flame, bound together by runecraft, were drowned under the sheer weight of summoned water. Zargothrax had the presence of mind to give himself an air bubble while the death throes of the mighty elemental construct smashed his walls. Ralathor, wherever he fell to, would have been battered by the flood, the fire, the chunks of falling tower.

Zargothrax stepped shakily but triumphantly onto the floating remains of his carved oak dining table.

“Who’s the greatest wizard now!” He proclaimed to the ruins.

“Still me, I should think,”

Ralathor stood behind him. Directly behind him. A bloody silver knife poked at Zargothrax’ collar like a suggestion.

“By the —” Zargothrax cut himself off. “I threw you off a forty-foot tower. I drowned you under the contents of an entire bog,”

“An impressive bit of magic, that. Not nearly as impressive thinking, of course,”

“you—!” 

Ralathor raised an eyebrow, cutting him off. The water was draining away slowly, carrying a collection of Zargothrax’ prized possessions with it. He grimaced when he saw a set of underwear snagged on a fallen chunk of masonry and looked back at the impudent gremlin who had caused all this.

“I’ll kill you.”

“ _ I’ll _ kill  _ you _ ,” said Ralathor simply. He prodded the knife forward, drawing the smallest amount of blood. Zargothrax slammed his staff into the table, throwing them both backwards — and finally splitting the abused wood down the middle.

Neither of them made any move to attack again. 

“I propose a duel at sunrise on the day of the vernal equinox” said Zargothrax finally.

“On the peak of West Lomond” agreed Ralathor, putting away his knife.

The silence stretched, still tainted by the recent fight.

“It’s a long walk home,” said Ralathor at last. “You don’t have a proper ritual ground where I can draw a transportation array?”

Zargothrax gestured at a muddy heap. A single confused frog hopped away from the motion. “You threw a dragon at it.”

“Ah.”

The sun hadn’t yet set, but it loomed orangely on the horizon, reminding the two sorcerers that their hours were limited.

“There’s an inn with rooms not far,” Zargothrax offered. “This won’t be dry by nightfall.”

Ralathor nodded. “Lead the way.”

They walked (or levitated, since the lochen that had formed in place of the tower made simple walking difficult) down to the village.

“I’m still going to kill you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Zargothrax sat as far as he could from Ralathor.

Ralathor sat as far as he could from Zargothrax.

A cheerful-looking woman blithely ignored the tension between them to deliver two plates of toast with boiled eggs. She was aware enough of the atmosphere not to try and start a conversation, at least. When her apron-tie-adorned bottom had vanished back into the kitchen, there was complete silence.

Ralathor buttered his toast.

Zargothrax decapitated his egg with extreme prejudice and glared across the room. “You made me destroy my tower”

“You are a grown adult and responsible for your own actions.” Ralathor took a bite of toast.

Zargothrax opened his mouth. He shut it again. He said, “_ And _ you broke my staff. Do you know how hard those are to make?”

Ralathor shook his head. He swallowed his toast. 

“I’ve never used one” He admitted.

“Never?” The room was empty this time of the morning, but even if it hadn’t been Zargothrax would have strode across with little regard for chairs and tables. “You have _ne__ver _ . In your _ life _. Cast a single spell with a staff?”

Ralathor mumbled something into his toast. Zargothrax stared until he could be certain the other man was _avoiding _ eye contact. Then he sat opposite Ralathor and stared some more.

Ralathor gave in. “I said, I couldn’t get the hang of them.”

Zargothrax burst out laughing in Ralathor’s face. “You.. you point it! Then you shout —” he broke off in what could on a lesser man have been called giggles “_ Then magic happens! _”

“I couldn't get proper power out of wands, either.”

Zargothrax looked up long enough to catch the end of that sentence, and laughed harder, shaking the table.

“What kind of wizard…” He panted, “Can’t use a staff _ or _ a wand. Are you sure you can do magic?”

“Are you _ sure _ you want me to answer that?” Ralathor spoke as calmly as ever, but his one egg-yolk coated finger tapped impatiently beside the runes he'd sketched on the tabletop. 

Zargothrax considered the point, and conceded. “Still, runes? Old men use runes.” He put his feet up on a table beside Ralathor, and summoned his breakfast with a flick of his fingers. It skidded to a halt by his boots.

“Precision. I study the deeper mysteries of this world,” said Ralathor. He tapped the rune on the table, making the yolk run into the familiar signs of the four elements. “Nothing I pursue can be achieved by haphazard spell-throwing.”

“Not that you can achieve anything by spell-throwing,” Chuckled Zargothrax through a mouthful of egg and toast. Ralathor’s withering glare did not cow him in the slightest.

“Spells are _ impermanent _. You cast them and they are gone. History will not remember a spell that dissolved in an instant and it will not remember the caster. I intend to create something that will last for eternity”

“Eternity,” Scoffed Zargothrax. “Legacies. What use does a dead man have for glory? Now, if you could live forever…”

Ralathor's eyes went wide “I’d have all the time in the world to develop my research, ultimately culminating in the ability to manipulate the very fabric of existence”

“You'd have time to _ enjoy _ yourself. Get drunk, visit wenches, all the pleasures of life your old bones have never heard of, buried in that cave.”

“I've been drunk before,” said Ralathor. “I don't intend to repeat the experience”

“They all say that.”

“You misunderstand.” Having finished his breakfast, Ralathor pushed his plate aside to better explain. “I once designed a potion that contained copious quantities of wine. Drinking it interfered with my concentration, so I spent the next weeks drinking only wine, of gradually increasing strengths, until I was able to perform complex rituals despite it.” 

Zargothrax shook his head in bewilderment. “Next you'll tell me you've castrated yourself”

“Of course not,” said Ralathor blandly, “what purpose would that serve?” He stood with a swirl of his cloak. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have the secret of eternal life to decipher.”

Zargothrax waved a hand and slammed the door Ralathor had tried to leave through. “You can't actually make yourself live forever.”

“Not yet. It's bound to be easier than creating living creatures from nothing”

“Living creatures like your giant, flaming dragon?”

Ralathor scoffed. “That was an elemental construct, like the golem. They aren't alive.”

“No,” Zargothrax shook his head slowly “That golem was alive. I can't mind control a rock.”

“It wasn't. That isn't… how does your mind control work?” Without waiting for an answer, Ralathor strode through the door to the street outside. Curiosity made Zargothrax follow, to where Ralathor was tracing runes both in the air and on the face of a pebble. A new, short cut adorned the back of his hand.

“What does that do?” Zargothrax pointed warily at the newly-made runestone. Without his staff, he had no defence against a curse of perpetual sobriety or any other horrors Ralathor's twisted mind could dream up.

“It's more convenient than parchment” explained Ralathor, without actually explaining anything. “So, how do you control a mind?”

“...” said Zargothrax. “Now wait a minute. Just because you've spilled your secrets doesn't mean I have to give you mine.”

Ralathor stared. He was capable of two facial expressions, Zargothrax realised: _ utter neutrality _ and _ you must be insane _. “Just think of the contribution to thaumaturgy!”

“_ Contribution to thaumaturgy, _” repeated Zargothrax. “I already told you I don't care. What's in it for me?”

“...Immortality.”

That made Zargothrax stop short. “You're serious?”

“I have research already on the essence of life. If you contribute, that's your research too. We could live forever.”

Zargothrax might reluctantly admit to being a tad impulsive, but no one could call him a fool. He narrowed his eyes at Ralathor. “Why would you offer this to someone you want to kill?”

“This is more important. Whatever we come up with is more likely to convey eternal youth than invulnerability. It won't stop either of us from killing the other later, but in the meantime…”

Ralathor didn't need to elaborate. He was sure Zargothrax felt it too: the divide between magical and mundane. They had the power — they deserved _ more _ from the world.

“Deal.”

It was this conversation that lead them to a graveyard one frosty November morning. Zargothrax had been all in favour of killing a few peasants for the experiment, but Ralathor had pointed out that they died all the time anyway. Indeed, when they arrived, it was to the sight of fresh-turned earth.

Ralathor had, this time, prepared a pot of ram's blood. It wasn't as potent as blood directly from the caster, but it was convenient. For the sheer amount needed to complete this ritual, it might even be necessary.

First were the focusing and imbuing runes, closest to the body itself. Further out, arrays of Ralathor's own design were interspersed with simpler circles that increased the power of the whole. Some runes weren't even runes at all. It was these symbols that had taken the longest to derive, from ashes and potion swirls and a more than a fair bit of failure.

Divination did work sometimes, but as magical arts went it wasn't nearly precise enough for Ralathor's liking.

Zargothrax stepped forward with a flourish of his staff as Ralathor finished the last rune. Magic sprung from the tip, encasing it, until it seemed Zargothrax grasped a living bolt of lightning. The runes lit all at once like a second sunrise on the lichen-covered beds of the dead.

Around Zargothrax, the haze of the morning burned away in a perfect dome, leaving him a silhouette of wizardry, alone and victorious.

“Did it work?” asked Ralathor, unappreciative of the stunning figure Zargothrax cast.

Zargothrax was, however, feeling generous on the high of performing such a ritual, and simply thrust one hand towards the newest grave. “Arise, my minion!”

An unwashed, unshaved, and definitely undead peasant scrabbled its way out of the soil. Ralathor came forward to examine it. Two arms, two legs. One vacant head. It was hindered by runes intended for use against the undead but not stopped. Alchemically speaking, it was completely alive, but had no reaction to healing brews. Ralathor tried a few more potions to test his findings, then imprinted the ambient magic onto a memory stone for later reference.

Zargothrax sent the peasant back to his rebuilt tower to prepare his dinner, which drew a wince from Ralathor.

“What? You make me destroy my tower, demand my attention away from rebuilding it, and now you would stop me employing thralls?”

“Do it if you must,” Ralathor said dismissively. “It's _ just _ a theory I have an entire shelf of memory stones on.”

Zargothrax didn't bother to answer that. He hadn't begun to read the library of memory stones and he didn't intend to. Asking Ralathor was much easier.

Aware of the general direction of Zargothrax' thoughts, Ralathor sighed and began to explain. 

“Consider that death isn't a state of being but a quasi-sentient force that can spread from former victims to claim new ones? In this case, simply by proximity, a dead creature would imbue your food with poisonous qualities.”

Ralathor was a genius, really he was, but sometimes he had the oddest ideas.

“Food is _ made _ of dead things,” Zargothrax reminded him. “One more isn't going to make a difference.”

He waved his minion away while Ralathor explained something unimportant in the background. Even if he _ did _ get sick, Ralathor had a talent for healing potions, so it would hardly matter.

Winter, as it continued, chased the sorcerers beneath Cowdenbeath. This probably had something to do with Zargothrax' hastily rebuilt roof caving in under the first snow. Zargothrax had even, after some wheedling, convinced Ralathor to use the growing cohort of tower thralls to 'test' his theory that death was transmissible, though they remained banned from preparing food.

Mostly though, they remained ensconced in the brewing room, with occasional trips to the ritual hall (open to the sun, or as winter would have it, clouds) for more complicated experiments.

After his sleeve had been disintegrated, his hair mysteriously straightened, and his boots transformed into chickens, Zargothrax began to understand why Ralathor's clothing was so heavy on the protective enchantments. That specific blank expression probably meant Ralathor was laughing at him, but Zargothrax was above asking for help and simply resigned himself to numerous fabric regeneration spells. 

(That he accidentally invented a spell to make his robe grow indefinitely was an unexpected bonus he saved for a day when some dramatic proclamation might need such an effect.)

Ralathor became increasingly absorbed in his work, now that the finish line was so tantalisingly close. Multiple concoctions were simmering at once, sometimes close enough to activate runic circles. The air was so full of wild magic that breathing became difficult, and, as Ralathor was dismayed to find, his resistance to drink did nothing against the mind-altering fumes. Through his uncontrollable giggles and intermittent periods of walking on the cavern roof, he cursed Zargothrax, who seemed quite at home in this state of mind, chatting — no, _ flirting _— with an imaginary… goblin?

Some wizards had no taste.

Despite these _ distractions _, the project trotted along. Potions were distilled, spells were cast, runes were prepared. The only question that remained was when to carry out the ritual itself.

The answer was obvious. A ritual of _ life _ would be best cast on one of the spring festivals. Imbolc they'd missed, after Zargothrax had 'rearranged' Ralathor's memory stones, and in return had his bed enchanted to buck him off, and in return had spelled Ralathor's cloak a tasteless mess of reds and pinks edged in false gold… That day, Zargothrax had discovered that Ralathor did care very much about his appearance, despite having no sense of dramatic flair.

And so, the first mages to crack the secret of immortality found themselves with a scheduling problem.

“I say we duel first, winner takes all.”

“Can't.” Ralathor tapped one of many vials they'd prepared over the months. “This ritual needs two people. If we duel first, no one gets it.”

“Rituals play havoc with ambient magic,” countered Zargothrax, “I am not casting a single spell where anyone has done a ritual”

“Then you won't want to cast a spell anywhere near your own body.”

Zargothrax tapped his staff on the floor impatiently. “Are you sure we can't make it one person?”

“We could, but before Beltane? unlikely. Before the equinox? Impossible. We're putting off the duel either way, most likely losing another year…”

“A duel is a sacred contract! we can't reschedule it like a fair in bad weather!”

“The contract doesn't require a duel to the death…”

“The contract allows the winner to claim the title of Greatest Sorcerer in Alba! I will not fight some mock battle over such an important matter!”

“Neither will I.” Ralathor's eyes flashed. “I propose on the day we set to duel, we begin a challenge. Taming a guardian of the underworld would suffice. Draining the Great Glen,” He nodded slyly at Zargothrax who could only growl at the reminder. “Some feat worthy of our power that will prove once and for all who is the strongest”

“Worthy of our power, you say?”

“You have an idea?”

“I have.” Zargothrax raised his hands, and called lighting to illuminate his proclamation

“The Greatest Wizard in Alba is the one among us who is first crowned King of Fife!”

The magic-imbued lighting exploded into the walls and floor, overcharging the runes that kept Ralathor's home habitable.

In the darkness of the cave, the alchemist raised a ball of cold fire to show his face.

“I accept.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been done last week, but I came down with fresher's flu.  
Enjoy!

A newly immortal Ralathor was regretting  _ everything _ . Being king sounded nice in theory, but as he dug through centuries of royal history in search of a way to take power smoothly — there was so much  _ work _ involved. Dispensing justice and protecting the realm were proper kingly jobs, better in the hands or a wise immortal sorcerer than some oaf born into the right family; it was the rest that irked him. All these royal appearances would have to  _ go _ , if he hoped for even a moment to himself and his alchemy.

He had all the time in the world, now. Everything would fall into place, until he was the only one alive to know it had ever been different.

Frantic, overlapping screams found their way through the winding caves to Ralathor's library.

“Dundee has fallen!”

“The end! The end has come!”

“The unicorns will destroy us all!”

“It's dark magic!”

Ralathor reluctantly poked his head out of the cave to a scene of absolute disarray. He was certain it wasn't market day, yet the little town was overflowing with people from surrounding farms, jostling and shouting to one another. Listening, Ralathor picked up the gist of what had happened. A dark sorcerer had taken an army of rotting, evil unicorns into Dundee, made fire fall from the sky, and generally flaunted his power.

“Zargothrax,” Ralathor whispered. Even this small noise was enough to make the crowd notice him and as one they shuffled away — magic wasn't very popular right now.

His surprising saviour came in the form of a rather crotchety voice. 

“Hey, aren't you Cleric Ralett's boy?”

_ “Old Thom _ ?” When Ralathor was about eleven, Old Thom had stopped coming to weekly markets, complaining about his knee. In the twenty and more years since, the man hadn’t changed a bit.

“No, I'm not dead yet.” shouted Old Thom, in the manner of old folk who are going slightly deaf. “You talk to the gods any, Ralett's boy?”

Now was hardly the time to waste goodwill, so Ralathor went with that interpretation of his abilities. “A little. It seems someone has summoned some lesser demons and let them loose on Dundee. I'll see what's to be done about it.”

“You hear that! The gods aren't angry with us, Ralett's boy is off to see what's up, and we are going to have a drink!” With that, Old Thom stamped off into the bar, leaning heavily on his stick. The crowd followed, casting a few sheepish looks back at Ralathor. 

“Zargothrax,” Ralathor said again as they left. “Oh Zargothrax.” A grin spread across his face. 

“Why did you have to make it so  _ easy _ ?”

  
  


Ralathor's first port of call was the wizard's glade of Glenrothes. As he expected, magic users of various denominations were already gathered there, having what was either a discussion or an argument about what to do next.

It ended abruptly when Ralathor walked into the glade.

“You!” The druid who owned the glade cried, “What have you done?”

“I have done nothing.” Ralathor swept into the glade and sat himself on a rock. “Zargothrax may have done something stupid, but I was never able to convince him of the virtues of thinking.”

The high druid wavered. In his eyes was the clear need to blame  _ someone _ , but Ralathor had been far easier to pin disasters on when the hermit had been hidden in a cave somewhere.

“B-but,” stammered the druid, “You  _ will _ stop him? He's your partner after all.”

“Not anymore.” Ralathor shook his head with just a touch of theatricality. “I thought better of him, really I did.” 

It was at this moment that an exhausted horse stumbled into the glade, throwing an equally exhausted man from its back: Prince Angus McFife.

Instantly, Ralathor had a plan. Defeat Zargothrax, win the eternal gratitude of Angus and his descendants, and have a key role in ruling Fife without ever worrying about the trappings of kingship. It was  _ perfect _ . 

The next morning, Angus woke with a start, muttering about dragons and magic hammers. Ralathor noted with interest that it seemed to be the result of a true vision. No one had ever mentioned the McFifes being dedicated to the study of magic; more likely, it had been triggered by the ambient magic of the glade.

Ralathor was tempted to ask Angus about the vision and the fate of Dundee by himself, but it wouldn't do to give every wizard in Fife more reason to hate him. He reluctantly put aside his latest experiment in enchanting (A Scroll of Binding) and went to spread the word.

By the time druids and mages and sorcerers and warlocks were roused to the situation, Angus was gone.

“What did you do to him!?”

Ralathor fixed the high druid with his least impressed look. “As I tire of explaining, I have done nothing. The Lord Angus had a vision, and was apparently seized by a sense of urgency.”

“You cannot expect us to believe that this is all some coincidence!”

“I expect nothing from you,” said Ralathor heavily. “If no one else has any accusations, I will be working on a way to defeat an immortal sorcerer.”

“I-immortal‽ Zargothrax cannot be immortal! That is a violation of the laws of nature!”

“Evidently not, or he would not have been able to achieve it. I must bid you farewell, High Druid. There is much to do.”

The afterglow of leaving the High Druid of Glenrothes shamefaced and spluttering lasted as Ralathor left the glade. It was only after it faded that he realised he'd lost the Scroll of Binding somewhere along the way, but leaving it was less of an assault on his dignity than going back, so he left it.

Firstly, Ralathor needed a way to spy on Zargothrax. His invisibility had proven unreliable, so he turned his attention towards hiding in plain sight. Rats and mice could move unregarded, but Ralathor's pride refused the idea. To take the form of an eagle would be more fitting, but too distinctive for secret ventures. After some consideration, he settled on the quiet dignity of a cat as perfect for his needs.

It took only half a day, with some blood from a cat and some of his own (graciously provided by the claws of said cat) mixed into a potion of flux. Ralathor drank the mixture inside a runic circle and had the strangest experience of his life so far.

He was on all fours. This, he had expected. He hadn’t expected for a dripping stalactite to steal his attention every few seconds. He hadn’t expected the strength of the  _ smells _ . Alchemy smelt different to the nose of a cat. This knowledge could be a useful tool in future experiments — but even as he thought this, Ralathor’s feline consciousness was tugged at again. This smell here was far more interesting. Strictly in the interests of the experiment, Ralathor followed his nose down into a section of the caves he had never bothered to inhabit.

The tunnels stretched further than he had imagined. When Ralathor became hungry, he realised the scent was that of a mouse, which his new instincts helped him hunt down and eat. A second mouse was nearby, and he captured that too, keeping it in his mouth in case he got hungry later. The tunnels twisted, narrowed, and widened again. They began to show signs of Dwarven exploration: a cluster of pick marks here, a scorched circle smelling of roasted rat there.

Ralathor mentally recounted his journey. Could he have reached the dwarven caverns beneath Dundee? The clan markings decorating the walls certainly seemed right. Now he thought of it, so did the emptiness. Dwarves had been migrating to the Highlands since the citadel had been built overhead; this influx of the undead was probably enough of a push that the last of them had left.

Dark magic lingered in the air. Ralathor was as open-minded as anyone; on another day, he would be arguing that 'dark' magic was an arbitrary label mortals gave to things that scared them. Not today. His feline form knew what dark magic was, and ran solely on instinct through sloping tunnels away from the twisted nexus. 

A sudden lance of sunlight made him blink rapidly. Ahead was a dwarf sized door of wood, warped enough by the years to allow thin shafts of brightness to penetrate the gloom. Ralathor focused on his body for a moment, shifting back into his natural human shape, and opened the door.

The wood stuck slightly in the frame, but when Ralathor jerked it open, it glided silently on its hinges. Dwarven engineering never needed oiling. It led onto a small unused courtyard.

Ralathor took to his cat's form again, and padded out across the lichen-encrusted flagstones.

The Citadel of Dundee was full of undead thralls, roaming here and there about mindless tasks. Even living, few of them would have registered the sleek black cat making its stately way through the palace. He sought the Dark Sorcerer.

Over the long trot from Cowdenbeath, Ralathor had had the most intricate idea for a trap. It would invoke all elements simultaneously, making Zargothrax freeze, burn, turn to stone, drown, and suffocate all in a single instant. It was cruel. It was sadistic. It had a chance of killing even an immortal.

Ralathor was more than a little irritated with his former partner. Zargothrax would be destroyed, and to that end Ralathor would learn to draw runes with his paws if need be.

Perhaps it was the limitation of paws, but Ralathor could not make the trap work to his satisfaction. He smudged out a rune with his tail and drew it again a few paw-lengths to the east.

Burning water rose through cracks in the stonework.

Ralathor, mystic enchanter of Cowdenbeath and immortal user of the magic arts, puffed up his fur and hissed. He was in the process of rearranging another array when the cry of an eagle made his cat instincts bolt for cover.

Outside the Citadel, the Knights of Crail were assembled, looking intimidating while making exactly no progress through the hail of scorpion bolts. Who was stupid enough to bring light aiglery to a seige? Ralathor scanned the skies and — 

Angus McFife of Dundee, riding a dragon and screaming into the wind. An army of what looked like Barbarians of Unst spread out across the plains. Not one of them had a proper siege engine, let alone…

Ralathor left his frustrating rune system, and headed for the dwarf tunnels. Luckily for the invading armies, a master alchemist also wanted Zargothrax gone.

“Through secret tunnels of the dwarves, we make our heroic way. The evil sorcerer Zargothrax shall fall upon this day!”

“Yes, Prince Angus” said Ser Proletius. 

Ralathor decided he quite liked the knight. Between a loud, possibly drunk Unstian with a giant battleaxe and a prince with a warhammer and a _ seriously _ overstated talent for poetry, it was good to have a mortal around who might even be sane. The journey through the tunnels was becoming unbearably long.

By the time they reached the door into the Citadel, even Angus has fallen silent, swinging his hammer in meaningless circles of impatience and nerves. The Hootsman's eyes were shining disconcertingly. (Ralathor may have been wrong in his first impression there. Once the barbarian had stopped searching every sconce for dwarven mead, a new, more focused side had become apparent.) Even Ser Proletius hand a hand on his sword hilt.

The courtyard was empty as they arrived. Then the dead began to scream. Amidst the guttural cries of rotting throats strode the Dark Sorcerer Zargothrax. He looked very impressive — unless the observer happened to know the first thing about magic, in which case he looked like a three year old who'd raided both parents' wardrobes and tried to dress like a grown-up.

“Scion of Darkness!” yelled Angus McFife to the wizard standing about two metres away. “The time has come for you to fall beneath my hammer!”

“Puny prince!” proclaimed Zargothrax in much the same tone. “Bow before me, and your life may yet be spared!”

With a cry, Angus launched forwards, the hammer in his hands beginning to glow. His heroic companions joined the fray as arrows of spell-light began to fly. 

One light flew wide of its intended target, crashing into a wall at just the right angle to power one of Ralathor's experimental rune arrays...

...Angus kicked Zargothrax backwards...

...and the floor beneath the would-be conqueror transformed into liquid ice.

“ _ Liquid Ice, _ ” Ralathor could be found scoffing to himself days later. The castle had been cleaned, the unicorns cured, the princess released from the ice — and Ralathor still had no idea what Zargothrax' spell had done to his runic trap. Ice couldn't be liquid. If ice was liquid, it would be water.

The newly crowned King Angus was happy, at least. He'd spent the past few days popping up in strange locations and dragging Ralathor off to be introduced to the lords of the court.

His extraordinary patience paid off at last when Angus gathered the court to announce that Ralathor was to be named Lord Archmage, and instead of governing a province like the other lords would be responsible for the field of magic, including all matters involving the magical defence of the kingdom.

As Ralathor bowed his head to receive the chain of office, he finally allowed himself to feel the spark of triumph that had begun as Zargothrax fell. His opponent was gone. His prowess in the magic arts was recognised.

He had the perfect position and all the time in the world to take what he deserved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor, Lord Archmage of Fife.
> 
> Did any of this actually happen?  
Well, my name isn't Ben or Chris, so probably not. For the record though, I've been careful not to outright contradict canon. It _could_ have happened.


End file.
